


A Pair of Grey Eyes

by MrProphet



Series: Mythic Noir [1]
Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Car Accidents, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 03:50:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10689189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrProphet/pseuds/MrProphet





	A Pair of Grey Eyes

I’ve got a bit of a reputation in the office. I like to think of myself as focused. They usually say ‘monkish’. Either way, the Old Man trusts me with a lot of the business that might throw one of the other boys. I usually get fed the business with legs. I’m noted for my resistance to legs.

The Old Man called me into the office on a Tuesday afternoon. He was waiting with a problem client. Black hat with a veil. Neat little black jacket over a white blouse. Black skirt barely covering the tops of black stockings. Shiny black shoes with high heels and buckles.

Trouble.

“Hawk; meet Brigid de Bertilak,” the Old Man said. “Ms De Bertilak, meet your new best friend. He's one of my best men and as of this moment, your shadow, wherever you go.”

Brigid de Bertilak turned to face me, eyes glistening behind her veil. “This man... he's very dangerous,” she said. “Is he up to it, Mr Pendragon?”

The Old Man grinned. “He doesn't miss a trick, this one,” he promised. “That's why we call him the Hawk.” He turned to me. “Ms de Bertilak believes that she's being followed. Her husband was murdered last month,” he added softly. “She believes that the same man is following her.”

“More of a monster than a man,” she broke in. “Gromer Summerday is a fiend; a murderer.”

I leaned against the Old Man's desk. “What's he got against you?” I asked.

“Ain't it enough that he wants to kill me?” she demanded with a pretty little pout.

“Not really,” I replied. “See, the reasons always count. How he comes, what he's gonna do, it all depends. I gotta know, if I'm keeping you safe, is he coming to take care of business, or is this personal? How crazy is he going to get?”

“I don't know, okay!” she snapped. 

Of course, it wasn't okay, but the Old Man's got a soft spot for a dame in trouble, so there wasn't much to be said.

“I'll do my best,” I promised. I went to fetch my coat.

 

“So, what does this Summerday look like?” I asked. We walked out of the Camelot Building. The lady made a beeline for a particularly large, European automobile with a particularly large driver sitting stoically behind the wheel. I couldn't speak for his nationality.

“He's a beast,” she replied.

“Evocative, but hardly descriptive.”

“He's a big man; six foot and change. You're a puff of air for him to blow away.”

“And yet you're parting with two hundred a day to give him something to puff at.”

“Better than nothing,” she suggested. She stopped by the door and waited for me to open it.

I got the door for her and stood by. “And what about the doorstop in the driving seat?”

“Oh, Carl is a pussy cat,” she assured me.

Carl half-turned and gave me a look through the window that suggested he thought of me as a mouse. I flashed him a smile as I got into the car beside Brigid.

“So you've got a puff of air and a pussy cat to protect you from this beast?” I asked.

She shrugged. “We take what we can get. Why else would I have married Baron de Bertilak in the first place?” She sat back in her seat and lifted her veil. That was when I saw her eyes – really saw them – for the first time.

They were grey. Wise eyes to be sitting in a face so young and pretty.

“Not much of a guy?”

“Not much of anything. Most men manage to have money, looks, brains or muscle; he had a title and a knack for pretending to be richer than he was.”

“So you married him and now you've got a pussy cat in a Jaguar. And two hundred bucks a day to spend on a bodyguard.”

“I might have more, if I live,” she assured me. “My husband finally came good a few weeks ago when some old relative in Europe up and died, leaving him a packet. Then Summerday blows into town saying my useless Baron owes him.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And you don't think that might be a reason to kill him? Did you inherit this... packet?”

“Of course.”

“And who inherits if you die?”

“Some... cousin or other.”

“Summerday?”

She didn't answer. That was answer enough.

That was when the Chrysler sideswiped the Jaguar and forced it against a lamp-post, which was a degree of crazy I hadn't counted on.


End file.
